The Walking Dead
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: They were both corpses, Illidan reflected.


**The Walking Dead**

 _I know this place._

Illidan couldn't see the structure in which he resided. Long had he been blind, and after more than ten millennia of darkness, if by some miracle he was given the normal sight of mortals, his eyes would probably burn in the sun. So as strong as his senses were, his eyes told him little of this place.

And yet, it felt familiar. _Smelt_ , familiar. It reeked of fel magic, but that wasn't new – Outland had reeked of fel magic. Fel magic corrupted the air itself. But this…this was something different. Far older, more controlled – fel magic that hadn't come from the destruction of a world in this world And there were other smells as well – moss, for instance.

"Enjoying yourself?"

And the smell of something else. A source of fel energy approached him. A source that reeked of sweat and blood.

"I have been chained long before you brought me here."

It smelt of orc. Even without the fel energies their kind so readily gave themselves over to, he could tell the species before him. Yet, this was something most interesting.

"Well, my prize, you will do well to remember that these chains will last just as long. Or, at least, as long as I deem them necessary."

He reeked of fear as well. So either the orc knew that chaining a night elf/demon hybrid was dangerous (and was therefore at least partially intelligent), or, his fear came from something else.

 _Demons._

He could smell them in this place as well. And some of them smelt familiar. Very familiar.

"Why am I here?" Illidan asked.

"Why?" the stranger laughed. "Not, 'how'?"

"How no longer concerns me. I have survived the Sundering. I survived the Legion, the Highborne, my brother, and wounds to the heart so grave you can barely imagine."

"But not Outland," the stranger pointed out.

Outland. Illidan remembered. How Akama had betrayed him, how Maiev found her 'justice,' how in the end, none of it had mattered. Death had found him. And he had welcomed it as the old friend it was.

"Not Outland," said the Brother Stormrage. "And what of it? I have died once. I do not fear dying again."

It was true. Kil'jaeden…well, that was a part of him he still feared. Seeing Tyrande and even his brother again…part of him had a fear for that as well. But death? No. He no longer feared it.

"Do you know where we are?"

And the stranger knew it as well. Illidan had tortured demons for information before, or interrogated if a soft touch was needed. The different line of questioning might have been the stranger trying to convey him still being in control, but Illidan knew the truth – the stranger was fumbling.

"No," he said.

And he'd let him fumble. Let him blather on. For while he would welcome death, he'd much prefer to gut this imbecile beforehand.

"Take a guess."

Illidan chuckled – a guess. The stranger was dying to tell him, but he'd play his game. A guess…

Fel magic. Moss. Even the smell of the sea. Demons everywhere. And…more, things. Like out of a dream, or past life. And-

"I know you."

Illidan looked at the stranger. Saw his fel magic burn through his magical sight.

"Yes, somehow, I know you."

But he smelt the air. And…

"A tomb," Illidan intoned. "The Tomb of Sargeras."

The stranger murmured something, before saying, "a lucky guess."

And the demon hunter laughed. Oh, he enjoyed this. The prisoner interrogating the jailer. Maiev, wretched woman as she was, had not been a fool – she had refused to play any game he had offered her or the Watchers. Not let herself be drawn in at the Black Temple either, the wretched woman instead biding her time. But this…if he were to die now, he would do so with a smile on his broken lips.

"You are in the Tomb of Sargeras," the stranger said. "And do you know why?"

"Enlighten me."

"Because this world will burn," the stranger snarled. Snarled so roughly that Illidan could tell he was desperately trying to control the game they were in. "Because the Legion has appointed me as their herald. The pact holds. The Dark Titan comes. And I will be his-"

"Gul'dan."

"…what?" the stranger whispered.

"Gul'dan," Illidan whispered. "You are Gul'dan. But…"

Illidan trailed off – the game had changed. Gul'dan. It couldn't have been – Gul'dan was dead. He'd consumed his own skull. Yet the signs of magic were identical. Somehow, Gul'dan, an orc warlock of times long gone, walked this world.

"How?" the demon hunter asked – he'd give up control of this game in exchange for an answer. "How?"

"There are many worlds," Gul'dan sneered. "Reality upon reality. The Legion eyes them all. And this world…" He laughed. "Even here, in the tomb of the Legion's commander, I can understand why." He chuckled. "My people failed. Weaklings, traitors, the lot of them. But it matters not. I am here. _You_ , are here. And the magic that sustains your body, the magic that makes you more demon than elf, will be a potent source of mana for the hand that will tear this miserable world apart."

Illidan screamed, and lunged at him. But Gul'dan had not lied – these chains would not break, no matter how hard he pulled, they remained in place, clanking, always reminding him that they were his jailer. Even as he tried to use his wings, he could not break free. And all the while, Gul'dan laughed.

Azeroth. His home, or rather, his _former_ home. A world he had long departed. And yet, as Gul'dan talked, he found himself wanting nothing more than to strangle the worm and find out if he had a spine before breaking it. Azeroth…Tyrande was here. His brother was here. His people were here. Somehow, he found himself caring. Somehow, he found himself _not_ wanting the Legion to begin what Queen Azshara begun 10,000 years ago.

"That's it," Gul'dan sneered. "Rage. Scream. I expect much of it from the defenders of this world." He chuckled. "And with the same results."

Illidan stopped struggling. If Gul'dan spoke truly, if the Tomb of Sargeras was to be the font of a new invasion…he could do nothing. Not now, at least. But-

"And so that is why you are here," said Gul'dan. "A walking corpse. Returned only to see your world end."

And Illidan laughed. Laughed so loudly that his voice echoed throughout the tomb, becoming as eternal as the rock itself. Laughed so hard that he didn't care about anything.

"What?" Gul'dan asked.

"Corpses," Illidan sneered. "Do you know what happened to the Gul'dan I knew?"

"…I am aware that another Gul'dan is known to this world."

"He entered this place," Illidan whispered, barring his teeth, tasting his own blood. "Seeking the power of Sargeras. And do you know what happened?"

Gul'dan, _this_ Gul'dan, didn't answer.

"He was torn apart," the demon hunter whispered. "He wrote his epitaph in his own blood. His skull became more well known to this world than anything else. Why, the essence of that skull is within me now."

"I am aware of this as well."

"Then be aware of _this_ ," Illidan hissed. "Your counterpart is a corpse, torn apart by the demons he sought to usurp. And you are no different. If I am a walking corpse, what then, are you? A hollow reflection of a hollow orc. And doomed to the same fate."

"I am not a fool," Gul'dan protested.

"You are here, in the service of demons who wish to end everything both of us have ever known," Illidan whispered. "I would say that makes you the greatest fool any world of any reality has ever seen."

Once more he laughed. Bitterly, this time. From reflection. Regret. And on some level, remorse.

"And I have known many fools."

He himself, among them.

* * *

 _Update (29/10/16): Made adjustments/additions as per user reviews._


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